LAST BOOK--DEATH
During the winter of 1887-88 Edward wrote his last book, "Miss Lou," a
tale of Southern life during the Civil War. In the spring he went down
to Virginia to visit some scenes he wished to describe, and while there
had a slight attack of neuralgia of the heart. The physician he called
in ordered him to return home at once, and rest for a time.
In June he seemed to have completely recovered his health, and sent his
usual invitation to the Philolethean Club of New York clergymen, who
then made their eighteenth and last visit.
On the 19th of July, however, my brother complained during the day of
not feeling very well, although he walked about the grounds inspecting
his plants as was his custom. After dinner, in the evening, he sat in
his library reading aloud from one of Nathaniel Hawthorne's works to
his daughter and one of her young friends. Suddenly he paused, placed
his hand over his heart, and said, "There comes that sharp pain again.
I shall have to go upstairs to my wife for some remedy." But he left
the room with a smile. After he had taken the remedy, which did not
give relief, his wife sent in haste for a physician, who as soon as he
arrived saw there was no hope of my brother's recovery. After about
forty minutes of extreme agony, Edward seemed to feel relieved, rose to
his feet, and attempted to cross the room, but turned quickly toward
his wife with a look of surprise and joy, exclaiming, "O my God!"--then
fell lifeless to the floor.
At the age of fifty, in the full vigor of manhood, his earthly career
came to an end. His funeral was held in the little church at Cornwall,
where he had first consecrated his life to the service of Christ, and
where he and his family had worshipped for so many years.
Then he was laid to rest in the quiet graveyard on a beautiful knoll
overlooking the Hudson, beside his parents and his own baby boy.
Only a little earlier in that month, and just three weeks before his
death, Edward invited the Authors' Club, of which he was a member, to
spend a day at his Highland home.
These lines were written in acceptance by Mr. E. C. Stedman:--
"Know'st thou the bank where 'Triumph de Gands' are red
(My books might be were I on berries fed);
Where Cro'nest lowers and Hudson laughs below it,
And welcome waits each editor or poet?
Know'st thou in fact the realm of E. P. Roe?
Hither, O hither, will I go."
I insert here several accounts of this last meeting, written after my
brother's death by members of the Club who were present.
"I had the pleasure of meeting E. P. Roe twice. The first time was
in May, 1888, at the Authors' Club in New York. It was a balmy
spring evening. I had strolled into the club-rooms feeling rather
lonesome among so many strangers, for I was then a new member of
the Club, and, stopping at the table to admire a great basketful of
apple-blossoms, I fell into conversation with a tall, fine-looking,
genial-faced gentleman, who told me that he had just brought the
flowers down from his farm on the Hudson for 'the boys.' I was
mentally guessing who this gentleman with the noble brow and the
black flowing beard could be, when some one approached and called
him 'Roe.' We were soon left alone again, and I hastened to say:
'Have I the honor of speaking to E. P. Roe?' Placing a hand on my
shoulder, and bending near me with a kindly smile, he answered: 'I
am E. P. Roe; and may I ask your name?' Finding that I was from the
South, he seemed to be especially glad of my acquaintance, and we
were soon off in a corner, seated face to face, he asking questions
fast, and with the greatest interest, and I answering to the best
of my ability, concerning the war history and the mountain scenery
of my native State. He was particularly anxious to get at the exact
social relation between the whites and blacks at the close of the
war--especially the feeling of the blacks toward the whites--with a
view of making correct statements in a novel that he thought of
writing. Each member of the Club soon wore an apple-blossom
_boutonniere_, and the rooms were full of the delicate perfume
of these delicious flowers. That night, on leaving the Club, I took
home with me a spray of the blossoms, and put it in water, and on
the following day it shed its fragrance for the pleasure of one who
was then an invalid. In her name I wrote Mr. Roe a note of thanks
for the flowers, and I received from him a characteristic reply. He
wrote:--
"'... I was delighted that my hastily gathered apple-blossoms gave
such pleasure to your wife. How little it costs to bestow a bit of
brightness here and there, if we only think about doing it!'
"The Authors' Club was invited by Mr. and Mrs. Roe to spend
Saturday, the 16th of June, at their home near Cornwall-on-Hudson,
where we were cordially promised a feast of strawberries and
pleasant outdoor pastimes. The day was a perfect, a happy, and a
memorable one to all who accepted the hospitality of the novelist.
He met us at the river landing with a hearty hand-shake and a word
of welcome for each guest, and personally conducted us to carriages
which had been provided to convey us to his farmhouse, which we
soon found to be an ideal home of unpretentious elegance. At
luncheon our host addressed us, begging us to lay aside all
formality, and get all the pleasure possible from his fruits and
flowers, green grass and cooling shade. The strawberries in his
patch were enormous, and each visitor to the vines in turn found
Roe at his side, parting the leaves for him, and showing him where
to pick the finest specimens. He was ubiquitous that day. If one
strolled off among the myriad roses, and stopped to pluck a bud, he
found the shapely hand of the farmer-author pulling for him a more
beautiful one. If you flung yourself on the grass to dream awhile,
Roe was lying down by you, telling you how happy this union of
friends made him feel.
"The day wore on to sunset, when a dance, to the music of banjos,
was improvised on the lawn, the banjos being played by some
handsome youths in lawn-tennis attire, who, with their gayly
beribboned instruments, made a pretty scene. Roe clapped his hands
with delight as he moved from group to group. I heard him say, 'How
often will I recall this scene! I can bring you all back here just
as you are now, whenever I want to.' His wife and daughters were
unceasing in gracious attentions to their guests.
"When the time for parting arrived, and the carriages were drawn
up, Mr. Roe hurried from one to another of us, begging each and all
not to go, assuring us of ample accommodation if we would stay over
night. A few remained, and those who left did so reluctantly, some
of them, I am sure, quite sorrowfully. I remember wondering at
myself for being overcome by such a feeling of sadness as I waved
the family a last farewell from the departing carriage. I had said
good-by to the famous writer as we came down the broad steps of his
vine-covered veranda, he with his arm about my waist.
"Never lived a more lovable and kindlier man than E. P. Roe; and
when, soon after that golden day, I read one morning of his sudden
death, my heart welled up with tears over the bereavement of that
stricken household in the shadow of old Storm King; yet I felt that
their grief must be illumined by the pure light that hallowed the
name 'of him who uttered nothing base.'"
"ELROD BURKE."
"I fancy there are few of those active, tireless Americans, who,
nevertheless, steal time from their business to read many
newspapers and many books, who have heard of an association of men
in New York called the Authors' Club. Authors, in their eyes, are
apt to seem like inhabitants of a world apart, a world separated by
a broad boundary from the sphere of average commercial labor.
Authors are, as it were, abstractions; they are heard and not seen.
They are heard through their books, which are the concrete essence
of themselves; yet the author is, after all, an extremely concrete
personage, who strives as hard as anyone for his living, and whose
reward is seldom commensurate with his efforts. It is the
exceptional great man of literature--the great author being a
better illustration than the small one--who is lucky enough to
enjoy felicity during his lifetime.
"But I did not start out here to make the old argument--which has
been so often a fanciful and sentimental argument--against
literature as a remunerative profession. My idea was a simple one:
To assume that authors are more generally hidden from public view
than almost any other class of men, and that, for this reason
especially, the least important bit of gossip touching the private
doings, goings, and sayings of authors interests, without question,
a very large number of people. The writer of a famous novel or poem
may walk the length of Broadway, yet remain absolutely a stranger
to the crowd among whom he walks. A nobody of a politician passing
over the same space would, I am sure, be liberally recognized as a
somebody, and not the least sort of a somebody by any means. The
stranger to the crowd, however, the author derives practical
benefit from the 'charm of mystery.' To be at once celebrated and
unknown is for him a desirable condition. His books are read. He
piques curiosity. What more could he ask for?
"The Authors' Club, being merely an association of authors, is
therefore somewhat outside of public view. Its peculiar distinction
is that it brings together various men whom the world honors, and a
few more whom the world may or may not learn to honor. It is a very
modest little Club, possibly with a very large future before it. If
I should praise it for one thing heartily, that would be the good
fellowship which animates it and which has permitted it to thrive.
Among the older members of the club--the members who actually
possess reputation--are Stoddard, Stedman, Curtis, Edward
Eggleston, John Hay, M. U. Conway, Mark Twain, George H. Boker,
Henry Drisler, E. P. Roe, Andrew Carnegie, Henry James, E. L.
Godkin, Parke Godwin, S. Weir Mitchell, Noah Brooks, and (in an
honorary sense) J. R. Lowell, Holmes, Whittier, R. L. Stevenson,
and Harriet Beecher Stowe. The younger members count such names as
Gilder, Lathrop, Bunner, Boyesen, Bishop, Luska, Will Carleton,
Rutton, Matthews, McMaster, Miller, Bronson Howard, Mabie, DeKay,
Boyle O'Reilly, Thorndike Rice, and others hardly less well known.
Of all the men whom I just mentioned none has a wider reading
public than Edward P. Roe, some of whose books have passed through
twenty or more editions.
"Mr. Roe is one of those authors 'who make money,' whose writing is
not thrown on the barren soil of neglect. His income from books is
much ampler, I believe, than the income of any other man of
letters, obtained from the same source, in America. Because he is
so popular he does not necessarily possess the elements of
greatness. True greatness seldom 'makes money.' Even brilliant
originality in literature has a comparatively small audience. This
is the line of logic, since the finest writing appeals only to the
finest minds, and the latter are stray blossomings in an oasis of
respectability. It is not, in the circumstances, difficult to
explain Mr. Roe's popularity. He tells a pleasant story with
unaffected simplicity; he is always on the side of conservative
feeling; he is eager to help men and women, as well as to amuse
them; he is, in short, the most earnest and effective
representative of a numerous 'home gathering' that is now writing
in this country. Why, then, should he not be popular? The bold or
merely erratic genius of distinctly literary writers might not be
appreciated or comprehended by Mr. Roe's public. Even so aggressive
a person as that turbulent and pyrotechnic Frenchman, Guy de
Maupassant, attacks criticism in a way which should be a lesson to
Mr. Roe's least generous critics. Without any kind of preconception
or theory M. Maupassant says: 'A critic should understand,
distinguish, and explain the most opposite tendencies, the most
contrary temperaments, and admit the most adverse researches of
art.' On such a broad basis of criticism every admissible
popularity may be fairly accounted for.
"Mr. Roe, the man, is an exact counterpart, one may say, of Mr.
Roe, the author. As an author, in the first place, he is remarkably
candid. He has been so candid, indeed, that the tendency of certain
critics to treat him disingenuously is rather absurd. These critics
want him to write books, apparently, which he does not propose to
write; they overlook the fact that Mr. Roe has stated very clearly
just what he desires to write. In a preface to one of his novels he
says, in effect, that if his books are not beautiful works of art
they are at least books which tender peace and resignation to many
lives. (I am not quoting, by the way, but am presenting the idea
which must have been in Mr. Roe's mind when he wrote that preface.)
There are so many clever books published nowadays which pervert the
young and sensitive conscience--a word not included in the
vocabulary of our 'disagreeably' artistic novelists--that it may be
wise to accept Mr. Roe's novels as good morality, if not as the
best literature.
"It is not every author who puts himself into his books. Drunkards
have written temperance tracts. Blackguards have written treatises
on ideal existence. Posing fops have railed against the hardships
which beset noble ambition. Mr. Roe has written the best that is in
him for the best that is in thousands of men and women. I have
tried to indicate briefly what he is as an author. As a man, he is
not less genial, sincere, and agreeable than his books. The
cleverest authors are, as a rule, far more entertaining and
astonishing in their books than in themselves. In themselves, to
speak the truth, they are not likely to be either entertaining or
astonishing. I should look to few of them as acceptable hosts. Mr.
Roe proved himself, and proved how good a host he was, on a recent
Saturday afternoon, when some thirty or forty members of the
Authors' Club accepted his invitation to spend a day at his house
and grounds on the historic heights of Cornwall.
"Nearly all those who accepted Mr. Roe's invitation travelled to
Cornwall by water. And they were not a bad lot, taking them
together. There was E. C. Stedman, for example, the most popular
writer among writers, the youngest man, by all odds, for his
age--fuller of the exhilaration of youth than most of his juniors
by twenty years; C. C. Buel, associate editor of the _Century_, who
will soon marry Miss Snow, an adopted daughter (if I am not
mistaken) of 'John Paul,' otherwise known as Mr. Webb; Mr. Webb
himself, wearing that contentedly placid air which he never seems
to shake off, and always on time with a good story or joke; A. J.
Conant, whose yarns are famous, and whose tall form swayed benignly
under a huge slouch hat; Hamilton W. Mabie, the youthful and
smiling editor of the _Christian Union_; W. L. Keese, one of the
few men who can speak with authority on the acting of Burton;
Theodore L. De Vinne, recently returned from Europe, where he had
vast trouble in keeping warm; W. H. Bishop, who has got beyond the
'promising' stage in novel writing and who will spend his summer in
France; Henry Harland ('Sidney Luska'), as cheerful as his stories
are sombre--just the sort of personality that does not repeat
itself in literature; Raymond S. Perrin, who is kind enough to save
some of his friends from disaster by presenting his first published
book--price $5--to them; W. S. Walsh, close shaven as a priest, and
editor of _Lippincott's_; Noah Brooks, once upon a time presiding
genius of the Lotus Club, and the author of several charming books
for boys; Edward Carey, associate editor of the New York _Times_;
Leonard Kip, Albert Matthews, John H. Boner, R. R. Bowker, and
several representatives of the _Century's_ staff.
[Illustration: TABLET ON BOULDER IN "ROE PARK."]
"When this crowd of writers--numbering about thirty in all--reached
Mr. Roe's home, they found Richard Henry Stoddard and Julian
Hawthorne installed there. Mr. Stoddard may now be classed properly
among our 'venerable' poets, although he enjoys excellent health
and gets through an immense amount of work. Hawthorne, in a flannel
shirt, with a soft red tennis cap on his handsome head, was by far
the most picturesque figure of the group. As to the host, Mr. Roe,
he is a man of somewhat striking presence. He is of medium height,
strongly built, with a gravely pleasant and intelligent face; his
dark hair is brushed off a high forehead, his beard and mustache
are long and black; he has kindly gray eyes, and his manner is that
of a man who has spent the greater part of his life in the
atmosphere of home. To do good, to help others--that appears to be
his earnest ambition. The notes of religion and morality dominate
the note of literature in him. In fact, he is much less an author
than a teacher. Once he preached from the church pulpit, now he
preaches through his books, and he finds the latter method far more
profitable, at least, than the former.
"Mr. Roe does not confine himself, however, to the making of such
books as please the great Philistine class. He is an authority on
the cultivation of small fruits and flowers. What he has written
upon this interesting subject possesses scientific value. Upon his
grounds at Cornwall he raises some beautiful specimens of the rose,
and strawberries as large and luscious as any found in New Jersey
soil during June. The day selected for the authors' visit to
Cornwall happened to be at the height of the strawberry season, and
the manner in which these usually sedate persons made their way to
Mr. Roe's strawberry bushes immediately after greeting their host
reminded one of the skirmishing of boys in a melon patch. The
berries, many of them with the circumference of a young tomato,
were dug remorselessly from their cool shadows, while a
particularly hot sun poured down upon the backs of thirty
perspiring authors. But the fruit was worthy of the effort used in
plucking it, for Mr. Roe has brought strawberry culture to a rare
state of perfection. His berries, whether large or small, have a
singularly sweet and delicate flavor; they are richly colored, and
their meat is as firm as that of a ripe peach.
"Mr. Roe's grounds are quite spacious, and lie directly under the
shade of Storm King. They are included in the plateau of a hill,
and the scenery round about--especially in the direction of the
Hudson--is wonderfully varied and picturesque. Mr. Roe's father and
grandfather resided at Cornwall, and now a fourth generation of the
family is identified with this lovely bit of country. The house
occupied by the novelist is not the one built by his ancestors. It
is a plain, old-fashioned structure, built as every similar
structure should be--with a broad, breezy hall running from end to
end, thus dividing the lower part of the house into two comfortable
compartments. The various rooms--and there are plenty of them--are
neatly but not pretentiously furnished, books and pictures being
their chief ornaments. On the top floor Mr. Roe has his workshop--a
long, narrow, uncarpeted room, under a slanting roof, well
ventilated, and filled with lazy lounges and chairs, common
book-shelves, a large writing-desk, and a cabinet containing
specimens of Hudson River birds. Mr. Roe's latest hobby is to
collect birds and to study their songs. He stuffs the birds and
jots down in a note-book brief comments upon their songs. He is
endeavoring, especially, to make an exact list of the time--to the
fraction of a second--at which each bird begins to sing in the
early dawn. 'I like to get my facts from nature,' he said to me,
'not from other men's books.'
"Mr. Roe is one of the most hospitable of men, a fact which his
thirty author-friends would have discovered if they had not known
that it was a fact. A day seldom goes by that does not bring him a
visitor who receives a royal welcome; a night seldom passes that
does not find occupants for his spare rooms. Whoever takes the
trouble to call upon him he is glad enough to see. If his
half-million readers could call upon him simultaneously they would
be led cheerfully to the strawberry patch. Authors may thrive on
the stones of a city because they must; but the ideal home for an
author is that of E. P. Roe at Cornwall.
"GEORGE EDGAR MONTGOMERY."
"It was on one of the most delightful days of last month that Mr.
Roe received in an informal way at his hillside home his
fellow-craftsmen of the Authors' Club of New York.
"A rambling old house placed back from the road and perched upon
one of the many hilltops that rise from the river in that most
picturesque section known as the Highlands of the Hudson, Mr. Roe's
home had about it that air of comfort and serenity that one would
naturally imagine as the most appropriate surroundings for the
author of 'Nature's Serial Story.'
"Mr. Roe was so peculiarly a companionable man that his friends
were legion, and among the busy workers who constitute the Authors'
Club none were more popular than he--the busiest worker of them
all.
"He met us at the landing, his genial face speaking a welcome even
before his voice was heard, and 'Roe! Roe! Roe!' came the greeting
from his expectant guests ere they filed off the boat. He saw that
we were all comfortably bestowed in the numerous carriages that he
had in waiting, led the procession up the steep road that climbed
the Cornwall hills, and standing at the foot of his veranda steps,
welcomed each visitor who 'lighted down' with his cheery smile and
his cordial hand-clasp. He turned us loose in his strawberry
bed--that pet domain of one who had so practically shown how it was
possible to achieve 'Success with Small Fruits;' he loaded us with
roses--dear also to one who lived as he did 'Near to Nature's
Heart;' and then with brief words of hospitality that were alive,
hearty and inspiring, he bade us make free with his house and home
for the day. That we enjoyed it, every action testified. Released
from care and labor for a day, surrounded by all the attractions
that make a June day among the Highlands doubly delightful, and
made so cordially to feel ourselves at home, enjoyment was easy,
and the day was one to be marked with a red letter by all whose
good fortune it was to have been one of that merry party.
"Mr. Roe's Cornwall home showed the lover of Nature and of his
chosen profession. 'This has been your inspiration here, has it
not?' I asked. 'Yes,' he replied, with a loving glance at the quiet
country landscape that we overlooked from the broad veranda; 'here
and hereabouts I have got very much of my material. I love it all.'
"The comfortable rooms of that quaint, old-fashioned house had many
a touch that showed the affection for his surroundings.
"'Well, Roe,' said Stedman, ever ready with his apt quotations,
'this castle hath a pleasant seat,' and he said truly. The homelike
house, the thrifty farm-lands, the verdant patches filled with
fruits and flowers, and the green growths of the kitchen garden
bespoke the man who added to the gentleman-farmer the practical
student of the helpful products of the earth.
"'Down there,' he said, indicating one portion of his land, 'I have
planted twenty-five varieties of peas. I wish to test them, to
study their quality and discover which are the best for the
producer to raise and which have the best flavor. I like to make
these experiments.'
"A bountiful spread for the sharpened appetites of those who found
in that flower-laden air an increase of desire awaited us in the
cool dining and reception-rooms--thrown into one to comfortably
seat so large a company--and it was a question who enjoyed it most,
guests or host, for his kindly attentions and his invitation to eat
and spare not gave an extra sauce to the good things offered us. An
after-dinner ride through the charming country thereabout, so many
sections of which had been written into his characteristic stories;
a siesta-like reunion beneath the shade of the trees that dotted
his ample lawn and almost embowered his home; an oft-repeated
desire that we should not go city-ward until 'the last train;' a
quiet chat as this most delightful of hosts passed from group to
group; the zest with which the pleasant-faced wife and the son and
daughter of our host seemed to enter into his and our enjoyment of
the day--these, and the many minor details of a June day's outing
among the historic Highlands that may not find expression here,
gave to us all an experience that no one among us would have
missed, and which each one of us will recall with peculiar and
tender memories now that the good man who made them possible to us
has dropped his unfinished work and left us so suddenly and so
unexpectedly.
"ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS."
Of the many tributes to my brother's memory I shall here quote but two.
The first is from Julian Hawthorne and is addressed to the Editors of
the _Critic_; the second is the resolution of sympathy sent to Mrs. Roe
by the members of the Authors' Club.
"You will probably be asked to find room in your columns for many
letters from the friends of E. P. Roe. I apply for admission with
the others, on the ground that none of them could have loved him
more than I did. The telegram which to-day told me of his death has
made my own life less interesting to me. He was so good a man that
no one can take his place with those who knew him. It is the simple
truth that he cared for his friends more than for himself; that his
greatest happiness was to see others happy; that he would have more
rejoiced in the literary fame of one of his friends than in any
such fame of his own winning. All his leisure was spent in making
plans for the pleasure and profit of other people. I have seen him
laugh with delight at the success of these plans. As I write, so
many generous, sweet, noble deeds of his throng in my
memory,--deeds done so unobtrusively, delicately and
heartily,--that I feel the uselessness of trying to express his
value and our loss. He was at once manly and childlike: manly in
honor, truth, and tenderness; childlike in the simplicity that
suspects no guile and practises none. He had in him that rare
quality of loving sympathy that prompted sinners to bring their
confessions to him, and ask help and counsel of him,--which he
gave, and human love into thebargain. Among his million readers,
thousands wrote to thank him for the good that his books had
awakened in their souls and stimulated in their lives. He knew the
human heart, his own was so human and so great; and the vast
success of his stories, however technical critics may have
questioned it, was within his deserts, because it was based on this
fact. No one could have had a humbler opinion of Roe's 'art' than
he had: but an author who believes that good is stronger than evil,
and that a sinner may turn from his wickedness and live, and who
embodies these convictions in his stories, without a trace of cant
or taint of insincerity,--such an author and man deserves a success
infinitely wider and more permanent than that of the skilfulest
literary mechanic: and it is to the credit of our nation that he
has it."
Authors' Club, 19 West 24th Street, New York.
January 19, 1889.
MRS. E. P. ROE,
DEAR MADAM--I am instructed by the General Meeting of the Authors'
Club to communicate to you the following minute of a resolution
that was then adopted. It runs as follows:--
"On motion of Mr. E. C. Stedman it is unanimously resolved that by
the death of Mr. E. P. Roe this club has lost a member who was
endeared to his fellow-members by more than ordinary ties. His
kindly disposition and charm of conversation and manner, his wide
charity, made him an always welcome companion, and though
circumstances did not admit of his frequent attendance at its
meetings, his constant interest in the club was evinced by numerous
attentions which showed that he was present in spirit if not in
person.
"This club recalls with a sense of sorrowful satisfaction that the
last act of the late Mr. Roe in connection with the club was the
generous entertainment of its members by himself and his wife, a
few weeks before his death, at his home at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson,
an event which will ever dwell in the grateful remembrance of those
who were present on the occasion, and in scarcely a less degree of
those members who were unable to avail themselves of the privilege.
"At its Annual Meeting this club desires to assure Mrs. Roe and the
members of her family of its sincere sympathy with her in the
bereavement which she has sustained, to convey to her its grateful
acknowledgment of the abundant hospitality she exercised toward the
club on the occasion of its visit to her home last June, and to
thank her for her generous gift of an admirable portrait of her
late husband."
I have the honor to be, Madam, with great respect,
Your faithful servant,
A. B. STAREY,
Secretary Authors' Club.